


Hanging Back

by purple_crayon (light_source)



Category: Flambards - K. M. Peyton
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-03
Updated: 2011-07-03
Packaged: 2017-10-21 00:08:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/218625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/light_source/pseuds/purple_crayon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A puzzle piece:  Will's mother.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hanging Back

**Author's Note:**

> This piece describes Isobel Russell, Will and Mark’s mother, and her relationship with the family; the cause of her death and its relationship to Will’s fear of horses. The italicised text at the beginning is from Peyton's original, p. 116 in the one-vol. trilogy.

_Joe turned the de Dion round and disappeared back the way they had come, and William and Christina started walking back the last mile toward the gates of Flambards._

 _“Do you always drive back?” Christina asked._

 _“Nearly always.”_

 _“And are you really going to fly this aircraft, when it’s ready?”_

 _“All the flying she’s done so far, I was in her. Sometimes Joe has a go, and sometimes Mr. Dermot, but I’ve done the best in her.”_

 _“Mr Dermot said, “Perhaps.” Not that you can. Only ‘perhaps’.”_

 _“Oh, he knows I will,” William said._

 _Christina was silent. She felt she had learned a great deal about William today. It seemed more like a week than a few days since they had met Dick with Sweetbriar. They walked on, not saying anything._

As they approached the gates to Flambards, Christina walked more slowly. William, realizing she was no longer next to him, stopped and turned round. She had taken off her hat and was holding it in front of her, absently stroking the feathers that curled over its crown.

“Anything the matter?”

“Not really,” she replied. “It’s just that, whenever we get near the gates, I always feel like hanging back.”

“I thought I was the only one who felt that way,” said William, surprised. “After all, you’re a hunting Russell.” He paused and looked at her. “You belong here more than I do.”

Christina looked at him. His exuberant mood from the afternoon with Mr. Dermot had vanished.

“Was it always like this, William? What I mean is, did you always feel like you didn’t belong?”

He stopped. Standing there, in the middle of the lane, he turned away from her so that she could see only his profile.

“My mother died a week before my ninth birthday,” he said at length.

He took her hand and led her over to the grassy verge, where they sat down, propping themselves against the trunk of an enormous elm. The wind lifted her hair and hummed restlessly through the tree-leaves. Will pulled up a tall blade of sedge and pulled its rough edges thoughtfully through his fingers.

“It’s one of the reasons we don’t celebrate things at Flambards, like Christmas and birthdays.”

“What was she like?” asked Christina. “My mother?” said Will, with a sudden note of bitterness.

“She wasn’t _like_ anybody. She was just herself.”

“That’s not what I mean. I mean, what do you remember about her?”

“She laughed a lot. She was always playing tricks on people - practical jokes. Father was different when she was alive. I even think he was a little afraid of her. He never knew what she would do next.”

“Did she play jokes on you?”

“No - she generally made fun of the grown-ups. She hated it when people put on airs. And when they were awful to servants.” He smiled faintly.

“Once she dressed up as a parlourmaid for the Hunt Ball and helped serve the champagne for hours before anyone recognized her. The entire county was talking about it for months. Father was furious at first - she’d fooled him too, begging off going because of a headache or something like that - but then he saw what a brilliant prank it had been. A ‘true Russell stunt,’ he called it.”

Will was smiling.

“Funny thing is, though, that what I remember most about her is that she read to me,” he continued. “Every night she’d sit by my bed and read to me. At first Mark was part of it, but he never had much use for books. _David Copperfield_ and _The Jungle Book_ and _Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea_. I’d be falling asleep and she’d see my eyes closing and she’d say, ‘Stay awake, Will! Just till the end of the chapter! We have to find out what happens!’”

His voice grew quiet “She gave me my first book about aeroplanes.”

Christina was silent. She put her hand gently on his shoulder, but he seemed not to notice. A short distance away, a flock of birds startled suddenly into flight, sparked by some invisible predator in the summer thicket.

“I should have liked to have known Aunt Isobel,” she said slowly.

“But that’s just it, Christina,” said Will. He sounded frustrated, almost angry.

“What do you mean?”

“You know how she died, don’t you?”

“Of course I don’t,” said Christina. “No one has told me. No one tells me anything, least of all you.”

It was hard to keep the reproof out of her voice. William jumped up abruptly in spite of his awkward leg and brushed the twigs and leaves from his jacket. Wordlessly he offered her his hand to help her up. They turned slowly back into the lane and began to walk towards the Flambards gates.

“My mother was killed in a riding accident,” he said. “The family story - the one that got told to people afterwards - is that she died after my sister was stillborn. That’s partly true. It did happen within a week or so. But she didn’t die of complications from the birth. Dr. Porter ordered complete bed-rest, but after a few days, she got up. There was something strange about her; she couldn’t sleep, or eat, or really listen to anyone, or sit still. One morning when Mary wasn’t paying attention, she slipped out to the stable and ordered Fowler to saddle her horse. He told Father later he didn’t dare object, she seemed so wild.”

He smiled. “Father wasn’t the only person who was afraid of her. She could be bloody-minded when she was angry.”

“Did she go out by herself?” asked Christina, thinking of the times she had ridden out on her own to escape the clamor and strife of Flambards.

Will nodded.

“The horse came back alone,” he said. “Hours later. The strange thing is how I remember it. The crown-piece of the bridle was nearly torn through and the iron and the leather were gone, ripped clean off the stirrup bar. What I remember was Father swearing about the damage - it was new tack he had had made in France specially for her. It didn’t even occur to him, at first, what had happened. No one had even gone out to look for her. She was such a good rider.”

Christina’s mind was churning. Will’s overwhelming hatred of horses and hunting began to make more sense to her. This boy, who had also witnessed the hunting accident that had crippled his father, was not afraid to leave the ground in a mechanical contraption so fragile that its wings could be bent by a strong breeze. But the horses that were such an important part of Flambards for Christina were, for William, a brutal and constant reminder of loss.

The hand-me-down riding habit that fitted Christina so perfectly had been tailored to fit Isobel. She looked up at him. His cheeks were wet with tears.

They rounded the final turn of the drive and the house came into view.

“And the worst part of it,” said William finally, “is that we don’t talk about it. You’re not the only person who didn’t know. No one outside Flambards was ever told. Not the aunts, not the lawyers, not anybody. To me it’s as though she was never here at all.”

“You’ve told me now,” said Christina. “So she isn’t entirely gone.”

“Yes, I suppose you’re right,” he said, after a long time.  

He added, his voice very quiet: “And you know, Christina, there are times when you remind me of her.”

"When I’m being bloody-minded?”

“Precisely. How did you guess?” He smiled at her and she took his hand.

“Race you to the door. Loser feeds the horses. Go!”


End file.
